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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249400">regardless of what they say</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/pseuds/celestial_txt'>celestial_txt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Femslash February, Finger Sucking, Lesbian Sex, Love in the time of post-war exhaustion, Masturbation, Praise Kink, References to Depression, Topping from the Bottom, Vaginal Fingering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:16:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/pseuds/celestial_txt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Call me good again.” Sylvanas snarls against Jaina’s jawbone, clutching tightly at her hair and pulling it taut until her neck is exposed to Sylvanas’ mouth. She doesn’t want Jaina to see her, she has to bury this, has to push this down and away. But she can’t. Not anymore. “I dare you.”</p>
</blockquote>Jaina slips up and accidentally calls Sylvanas <i>good girl</i>. It drives both of them wild with need.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>171</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>regardless of what they say</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/InFamousHero/pseuds/InFamousHero">inFamousHero</a> messaging me with "haha consider praise kink but it's Sylvanas getting praised" and letting me take that idea and run wild, as well as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2Kai_fkIks">Hyperballad</a> by Björk.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The glacier of Icecrown moves slowly, but move it does, the ice chipping at the saronite structures dotting the broken landscape. The dragonhawk chirps as it passes a scout on another mission, but Sylvanas does not raise her hand in greeting to the blood elf passing in the eternal grey light of Icecrown. The sun never rises or sets upon this place, the clouds blotting out both light and darkness. A terrible place to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does this route every few days, tracing the progress of the land. Undead stand around, jaws hanging slack, limbs still. Ragged flags whip in the northern winds. The battle ended long ago, and everything has come to a standstill. There is no fight left in these undead. They are merely waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shudders to consider a fate like this, the entropy of time grinding into her dead bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In front of Icecrown Citadel, she steers the dragonhawk up. It bucks, tries to veer off-course. She tightens her grip on the reins and clicks her tongue. She will not take this one again, far too skittish in the presence of undead. But she will come here again. She does not need to go here. This place should not matter to her anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the top of the Citadel she dismounts, the winds hitting against her face so hard that it almost hurts. The throne is frozen over, a dull light throbbing at its ice-encrusted heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be a better ruler?” Sylvanas asks, as she asks every time, glaring down the cold throne. “Or will you too give in? Will you too raze the lands of the living?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man encased in the ice does not answer her. Not that he matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breaks off an icicle from the throne and walks over to the edge, holding her hand out and dropping it. She watches as it falls against the pitch-black haze below, watches as it crashes against the saronite ledges of the tower and shatters. The pieces rain down, out of sight. She breaks off another piece of ice and does the same, the repetition of the motion keeping something at bay inside of herself. When that icicle too is out of sight, she picks up a block and throws it off with so much force that she lets out a scream, quickly swallowed by the howling winds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It too shatters against the saronite. She watches until there are no more shards left to see, no evidence of what she has done except the jagged edges where ice used to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does not get any easier, but it stills the gnawing thoughts. For now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dragonhawk chitters and twists anxiously, and she calms it with a cold hand on its neck before mounting up and leaving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is late for her meeting in Dalaran. Not that it matters, either. So little does these middling days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The council chambers are not as full as they used to be. Slowly, little by little, the Horde and Alliance have been leaving their holdings in Northrend. The meetings of the leaders and organizers have been dwindling in population. The only ones making it each day are Sylvanas herself, and Jaina Proudmoore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Young, pretty, living lady Proudmoore. How she fought to keep the fragile peace knitted together, and how now she is so consumed by her own thoughts that she hardly seems to notice things unravelling all around her. Still, her shoulders sag under that invisible weight. No doubt the clouds gather at the back of her mind too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As loathe as Sylvanas is to admit it, just because that human mage is young does not mean she is foolish. Hope is a fool’s game, yes, but she plays it well. Sylvanas will give her that much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peering in through the crack in the door, Sylvanas shakes the snow off of her clothes. There is only one waiting in the chamber today. Only Jaina, lost in her thoughts as she plays with a locket. She never wears it, but she keeps it around, tucked into a pocket of her dress. Sometimes when she thinks she is alone and unseen in the meeting room, she takes it out and opens it, staring at it like she does not understand. As if there were still great mysteries to reveal about what has happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas knows there is nothing left to learn in these pits of darkness. Just an endless amount of rubble to sift through. All she knows, she has learned through trial and error. Lately, mostly errors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought vengeance would taste sweeter but after it all, it was just anticlimactic. Just a boy, dying in front of his melting throne. Nothing more. Nothing less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, it did not soothe her. Perhaps it did not soothe Jaina, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas pushes open the doors and enters, pretending she does not see how quickly Jaina slips the locket back into the folds of her dress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing new in Icecrown,” she says, flipping through the various missives she has gathered up during her route. It makes it seem like her daily ritual has purpose. It provides a good enough cover. She divides them neatly into the letter boxes of each empty seat, noting that some have not touched theirs for weeks on end. <em>Ingrates</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she comes full circle on the table, Jaina is lost in thought again, her gaze distant. Sylvanas holds the sealed missive out in front of her, forcing her eyes to come back into focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yours.” Sylvanas rarely lingers long enough to have any deeper conversations at these meetings. In a way, it is a relief that less of the Horde leaders are showing up. It means less being told what to do, being told to behave, being pressed to keep silent and fall in line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is tired, and thinks already of what meager comforts she might find alone this night. Wine tastes like soil in her mouth, and food bears no sweetness for her. Perhaps a book. Perhaps a pair of hands colder than hers that she can push down and tell what to do. She likes to be in control, to tell someone what to do, because the thought of letting someone get in under her armor and get inside of her is horrific. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina takes the missive between two fingers and offers a distant smile. “Good girl,” Jaina says, folding the letter in half without a pause to her movements. As if the words that had just passed her lips were not entirely inappropriate, horribly so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a clench in Sylvanas, not wholly unfamiliar, but most unbidden. She has not felt it in years, but it has been there, simmering, just unfocused on anyone or anything. It <em>hurts</em> with how intense it strikes. If Sylvanas did not know better, she might think she was dying all over again. But no. This is an echo of <em>being alive</em>, shooting through her with such force that it aches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina’s hand flies up to her mouth, eyes widening as she realizes her mistake. “I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Highly inappropriate.” Sylvanas keeps her tone sharp, even though that sting in her body is demanding something far, far different of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not mean to offend, I meant, good work.” Jaina pauses, askance. “That is even worse, is it not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas sneers, because it is easier for her to do so. “Belittling, one might say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only way to remain in control of the situation that she can think of is to play this game with Jaina, to corral her into a verbal trap, but it does not actually make her feel better. Well, a little, maybe. The blush rising on jaina’s cheeks certainly is charming, if nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which I would never intend to do.” Jaina rises from the chair, wringing her hands, and then drops into a <em>curtsy. </em>As if Sylvanas is royalty. How absurd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina lingers in that half-kneeling pose for a while, waiting, her gaze lowered to Sylvanas’ knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing her arms, Sylvanas cocks her head. “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m embarrassed. I.” A word stutters and dies in Jaina’s throat and she peeks up at Sylvanas, her blue eyes glassy and lips flushed and parted. It is far too much. Far too <em>living</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is your emotion. Not mine.” Sylvanas turns on her heel and leaves the room, pretending she is not feeling a frisson of feral need gnawing at her. A thing she cannot explain, not now. Something she cannot face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It haunts her, though. It haunts her all throughout the night as she opens book after book, reading a few pages here and there with nothing truly registering. She empties a bottle of wine and it does nothing, the sour taste fermenting in her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has not been called good in so long. She has been called cursed, horrific, a slight against nature, an abomination. She has been called the first of the forsaken, she has been placed upon a piedestal threatening to crumble the moment she makes one wrong move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has not been a girl in a long time. Nor has she exactly been good. But being called that. It should not make her feel anything, much less this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falling back on her bed, she shoves a shirt into her mouth to keep the Kor’kron guards outside from hearing her. She will not be humiliated like that, having them report back to Orgrimmar what she gets up to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone in her chambers at night, she finds relief, struggling to navigate her undead body, how cold and hard it is under her hands, how it does not smell right. A decade of being dead and she still struggles with that. It never grows easier a burden to bear. She barely knows this body, but she knows enough to feel like she can breathe a little easier in the minute aftershocks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After her daily route through Icecrown, the meeting room is filled for once. She does not pay attention because no matter what she thinks, no matter what input she has, it will be ignored. A secretary will note down a list of orders and pass it to her, signed and sealed by <em>the office of Orgrimmar</em>, and that will be that. Her distraction will not cost her for one day, and she takes the time to pin Jaina down with her gaze. </span>
</p><p>She wants to say something to her after the meeting. Anything. <em>Good girl</em> annoys her, and <em>good girl</em> stirs her. How infuriating it is to still be at the mercy of such decidedly carnal whims, when there is not even blood pounding her dried-up veins, only dark necromantic magic infusing her bones instead.</p><p>Her hands are too cold, anyway. Her mouth is too dry, and her hair tangled in knots that she keeps hidden under the hood. She is dead, <em>so very very dead</em>, and Jaina is not. She is alive, and she is aging, and she is constantly in movement. Every day Sylvanas witnesses the small changes in her during the meetings in Dalaran, the ones that Garrosh and Varian have stopped attending but that she dutifully shows up to anyway.</p><p>As if it matters what they do.</p><p>The eternal frost of Icecrown looms outside the stained crystal windows, and the mages act as if they are strong enough to defend against everything.</p><p>And Jaina dares to call her <em>good girl</em>.</p><p>Sylvanas watches as she folds the papers, trying to keep her hands busy, while Sylvanas remains frozen, disgust contorting her face to hide what is stirring underneath.</p><p>It is no easy thing, to be pulled back in like this. If she cared to, she might even call it humiliating, but she would never lower herself to that feeling. Not again. Not after the Wrathgate. Not now, when she is the dog of the Horde, nothing more than someone to be kept on a leash and taunted, reminded of all her failings.</p><p>As they say — she is bad and terrible, and she has grown used to it. Some even think she basks in those epitaphs thrown at her.</p><p>As they all file out, a warm hand closes around Sylvanas’ wrist. Instinct gets the better of her, and she twists it around until a pained cry makes her loosen the grip. She can feel the blood thrumming in Jaina’s wrist, so warm and moving, and she drops it, lips curled in disgust.</p><p><span>“I truly meant no offense.” </span>Jaina’s cheeks flush, the blood rushing in her body to her freckle-stained face.</p><p>Once, Sylvanas might have been charmed by this. She tells herself that she is immune now. That she is not like this. <span>“I was not offended.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Jaina’s eyes widen, and then the tips of her ears redden, her voice cracking a little. “So why did you toy with me like I was some sort of mouse caught in your paws? What was the point?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Control, lady Proudmoore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina throws her hands up in frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She got under her skin. Good. She can live with that. That is easier to control. That is easier to manage than the thought of making Jaina blush more. She does not need <em>that</em> complication in her life. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Sometimes, a stray thought — like how simmering with fury Sylvanas looked in the ruins of her old city — sneaks into Jaina’s mind. Sylvanas is beautiful to her, and she does not know what to do with that thought. She is beautiful and Jaina is a mess who braids her hair to hide the tangles on days when she is too foggy to comb them out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fog has been growing thicker in her mind, worse than the one that would sweep into Boralus during the fall and get into every item of clothing in her wardrobe, soaking through every piece to the very seam. Seeping and wet and impossible to navigate, just the white-grey soup erasing the horizon day after day. </span>
</p><p>It is not grief, not exactly, or so Jaina tells herself as she picks up the locket again.</p><p>But it is holding the shards of a life she never lived in her hands as she curls the chain around her fingers until the fingertips turn white. He kept the locket, long past what would make sense. That is the worst of it. It makes her wonder, and she hates wondering, because she also knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was long gone by the time she watched him die at her feet.</p><p>Still. She thinks of the life she could have lived. The trade agreements between Kul Tiras and Lordaeron that she would have negotiated. She was always more excited about those than any wedding. She was always a practical daughter, and that was why her mother loved her so much back then.</p><p>He did not keep <em>her</em>, though. Only a memory of her. As she did of him.</p><p>She puts the locket back down on the table, but turns back to stuff it into her pocket, much to her own annoyance. One day soon, she tells herself. One day soon, she won’t feel this horrid need to cling to it.</p><p>The sea never stops calling to her and it’s tearing at her heart, but she can’t. She can’t. There is nothing for her on the other side of the ocean anymore. <em>This is not the time</em>, she reminds herself, even as she makes her way down the scarred landscape of Dragonblight that crackles with ancient raw magic.</p><p>She gazes out over the sea, the northern lights dancing in the blue-grey sky. How it calls to her, tugs at her heart to steer a ship out over those surging waves and brave whatever awaits there. To stay out on the sea for days on end and feel the sun warm her down to her frozen bones. To have all of this melt away from her, until all she is, is sunlight and seasalt.</p><p>She thought she would want to go home at this point. It would be logical, would it not? A wound cauterized, the infecting thorn pulled out, but no. She still has Theramore, she still has Dalaran, and even though she hears the sailors in the harbor who talk about the daughter of the sea, she keeps her hood up and head low.</p><p>One day, perhaps. One wound at a time.</p><p>For now, she is here to bless a ship before it returns south, drawing up the runes of sea protection like she learnt long ago. Before she could walk, she knew the roll of the sea in her body. Before she could write her own name, she could draw the rune of safe journey interwoven with the rune of clear navigations.</p><p>The season is turning and the heavy ice that churns in the southern waters of Northrend is beginning to break up. Soon it will be time to send the rest of the Theramore fleet home, and she should go too. She should leave.</p><p>She really should. What is there left for her here? She could be cruel and say nothing but the biting cold, and a pair of eyes that follow her outline when no one else shows up to the meetings. But it is not entirely true.</p><p>Despite it all, she likes it here, in the cool north, the thick woolen dresses finally having a use like they have not had since she used to make the winter journey back to Boralus as a teen.</p><p>She likes it even more in Dalaran when she catches sight of Sylvanas but she still does not want to grasp at why, looking at her own desire between her fingers as if that will somehow make it easier.</p><p>As the morning draws to a close, she reluctantly turns back north to Dalaran. Though the meetings have long since outlived their usefulness, she keeps going, locket heavy against her hip. Even worse now, that she has made that mess out of herself and Sylvanas. Not that they had anything before, but that <em>good girl</em> that slipped from her lips seems impossible to recover from.</p><p>She dreads seeing that disdain in Sylvanas’ eyes yet another day. But she will keep going, because she was once a good, obedient daughter and now she is a good, dutiful leader no matter how hazy her mind gets in the sea of words that floats across the table, all of them meaningless to her. She passes her notes onto Pained who makes sense of them, and then she sleeps in a daze, pressing her thighs together as she pretends she isn’t thinking about Sylvanas.</p><p>And the days, they churn ever onwards, night going into day, duty leading into errand into meeting into the lonesome night. It all repeats, seemingly endless, a routine she clings to because if she lets go, she worries she might not break the surface again.</p><p>All the while, the damned locket burns at the back of her mind, the promise of what could have been haunting her darkest thoughts.</p><p>Alone in the meeting room, she fishes the horrid thing up again and twines the chain around her fingers until the nerves ache with the blood constriction, fingertips slowly turning white.</p><p>She might have made a good princess consort. Even a queen, one day. RIght? She tries not to think too deeply about it, tries not to think of a time less broken.</p><p>“I see you play with that thing every day.”</p><p>Jaina jumps in her seat, untangling her fingers from the warm chain. Sylvanas sits down across the table from her, putting her booted feet dripping with melting snow up on the lacquered table. “You are obsessed with the past,” she says, almost accusing. Sylvanas has little time for Jaina’s nostalgia.</p><p>But she is not wholly correct. “I don’t think it is about wanting to go back.”</p><p>“Then what is it about?” she snarls, just the hint of bared teeth flashing.</p><p>“It’s about understanding what I lost.”</p><p>
  <span>“A life as a coddled royal, weighed down with the pressure to sire an heir for a man more hungry for glory than for your warm bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In another time, Jaina would have been offended at this harshness. But she <em>laughs</em> and then she cannot stop, it’s not even funny, and Sylvanas is looking more and more perturbed as Jaina wipes at her tears. It’s not funny, it isn’t, but she keeps laughing and her lungs ache and her eyes keep watering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could have given her life to a man who didn’t even want her like that, and she is sitting here holding his locket like a lovelorn maiden waiting for her man to return from war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas touches her shoulder in a way that jerks Jaina out of the laughing fit with a brutal sharpness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you… Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina wants to say yes, she wants to smooth out the fears in her own heart, the wrinkles in her thoughts. She doesn’t want anyone to worry about her, ever, but her tongue does not obey her mind. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is shocked at her own admission. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Jaina looks at Sylvanas with eyes as blue and deep as the ocean, and Sylvanas thinks of how they would look focused on her with lips trembling, sweat beading on her forehead, the thick blonde lashes fluttering and what would she say, what would she do — </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All these unbidden thoughts, crawling like maggots in her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina gnaws on her lower lip, her tongue darting out to wet it as she looks away from Sylvanas. She carries her nerves on her sleeve in places such as this. Perhaps she, too, finds it less than satisfying that these positions they are in keep them circling back here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against her better judgement, Sylvanas wipes at one of those messy laugh-tears staining Jaina’s cheek. She is so horribly warm, and soft, and it frustrates her more than she can ever put into words, frustrates her how Jaina got in there simply by saying <em>good girl</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better get this over with.” She cups Jaina’s face and bends down over her, shadow wrapping around this warm living beauty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas is good at being cold and cruel because others have made her like this, shaping her with how they see what she has become without knowing who she has become. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her kiss, however, is not cold nor cruel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some things the body never forgets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some things, the body remembers long past when the memories should have stayed buried. The body knows, even when the mind wishes otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body remembers this: how to soften her lips when they meet another’s, how to wait for the sensation of them against hers. Jaina responds, immediately, wanting more, and Sylvanas slides her hand behind her neck and tangles her fingers in the sweaty curls at the back of Jaina’s neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvanas’ body learns the shape of hers so fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she still had a heart, it would be pounding in her chest. She never thought — s<em>he never thought this would happen ever again</em> — </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There have been other forsaken. Trembling touches, before she became the Banshee Queen, the Dark Lady, and a sort of strange worship creeped into their way of looking at her. As if she was salvation. All she wanted was someone to fuck into, to make the long sleepless nights seem a bit less endless. What did she know about ruling? What did she know about being undead? Nothing more than any of the others. All she had done was arrive first to the funeral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tried other undead. Cold hands trying to make sense of what had happened to their bodies. Trying to understand what had happened to pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes it worked out. Mostly it did not. All of it left her frustrated and wanting something more, and that feeling? She buried it deep down, underneath everything else, far below the resentment and the mourning and the sorrow. She was dead. She was unwanted. It could have stayed like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ending the kiss, Sylvanas thinks she can bury this too. She wipes Jaina’s saliva off her lips with her thumb, swallowing around the taste of Jaina’s salty tears in her mouth. She can let it end here. She can ignore the way that Jaina’s eyes, blue like the ocean, pull at her. She can forget how soft and warm her mouth is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a word of this, to anyone,” she hisses at Jaina. “Ever. Forget it happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaina shakes her head. “I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You <em>should</em>.” Sylvanas steps back from Jaina, gathering herself up, letting the cold take over her deadened nerve endings again. “And don’t ever call me good again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can play this off as a mistake, a slip of judgement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has done it before. There is no trick to it. Just sheer force of will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least this is what she excels at, if nothing else: she is a damnably good liar.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My twitter is <a href="https://twitter.com/celestial_txt">@celestial_txt</a> &amp; <a href="https://celestial-txt.carrd.co/">my carrd</a> is here.</p><p>Chapter 2 &amp; 3 coming up over the next two weeks &lt;3 In this month we stan our fave femslash ships.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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